house after her pa died. Geneva held her stomach, feeling as sick as if she’d drunk the contents herself.
Chapter Two
Caleb swung the scythe back and forth across the lawn at the side of the house. It had taken him the whole morning to learn to wield it properly, but now he began to see some progress on the grass that reached his knees and gave the house a derelict appearance. Just like its owner, his mind echoed. He glanced down at his work clothes—denim trousers and rough cotton shirt, its sleeves rolled up on his forearms, revealing the undervest beneath—what would his father say of him now?
Nothing that he hadn’t heard his whole life.
Caleb abandoned that line of thought and concentrated on his strokes. He hadn’t had such a workout since he’d climbed the ratlines of a ship. He turned to look with pleasure at the swath behind him, ignoring for the moment the much larger portion that remained to be cut.
Just then, he saw his neighbor coming down the road toward his property. Caleb wiped his brow with his bandanna, wondering what the strange Miss Patterson was coming to see him about now. He hadn’t spoken to her in over a week. Occasionally he’d glimpsed her at her tasks, up beyond the field and trees that separated their two properties or out on her boat, but she’d made no more silent ventures into his territory since the day she’d helped him prepare the soil for planting.
The two of them had worked hard that day. Caleb chuckled, remembering how he’d felt when she first appeared at his door. He’d about forgotten her promise of seedlings.
Working in a field in the full sun was not a remedy he’d recommend to anyone after the amount of alcohol he’d consumed the evening before. But he didn’t let on about his physical condition, though he suspected her sharp black eyes didn’t miss much.
He watched his neighbor open his gate now and wondered what sage advice Miss Patterson was going to offer him on this occasion. At least he knew her name properly. He’d found out the last time he’d been to the village.
She was making her way toward him with her purposeful stride. Did she ever wander aimlessly?
She’d probably take one look at his garden and make a dour prophecy of doom. At least the seedlings had survived his inexperienced planting; several rows of seeds and the quartered potatoes with their eyes had sprouted as well. Except for that one row of beans, everything had looked promising to him this morning. Now he wasn’t so sure. His plants began to take on a thin and sparse appearance as he tried to picture them through Miss Patterson’s experienced eyes.
“Morning.” She wasted no excess words in greeting.
Caleb leaned against the scythe and touched his hand to his hat brim. “Good morning to you, Miss Patterson.” She gave him a sharp glance, as if his words held some double meaning. He returned her look blandly. “What can I do for you?”
“Came to see how the seedlings were doing.”
“Just getting around to worrying about their fate?”
She flushed at that and looked away from him. “I been busy. Couldn’t make it back the other day.”
“You were under no obligation. I am grateful enough for all your help.”
“Still, it wasn’t right. I should’a finished what I begun.”
“Shall we have a look?” He invited her to go before him with a gesture of his hand.
Giving an abrupt nod, she turned and led the way to his garden, saying along the way, “You can set out seeds every week for another couple o’ weeks. That’ll give you crops right through the summer and into the first frost.”
When she got to the plot, she walked the length of it, silently inspecting the inch-high rows of peas, the tiny pairs of leaves on the sprouted radish and beet seeds, the feathery carrot tops, the pale gray-green of the cabbage and turnip sprouts. She nodded at the taller seedlings she’d given him to transplant from her own supply, which showed a few new leaves. Caleb hadn’t felt so nervous since holding out his slate for his tutor’s scrutiny.
“You water ’em when they’re dry?”
“Yes, miss.”
She gave him another glance, then bent down to pull out a thin weed Caleb could have sworn hadn’t been there that morning. “Hoe around the bigger plants after it rains?”
“I will now.”
Then she came to the pole beans. She squatted down beside them and took one little stem between her thumb and forefinger. It was thick and green, but where its two first leaves should have been was a shriveled, brown stump. Before Caleb could offer any explanation, any denial that he’d treated these seeds with any less care than the others, she pronounced her verdict.
“Cutworms.”
The word conjured up an image of a pair of shears going through all his rows, hacking the tender plants to shreds.
“We’ll have to replant ’em. This time we’ll sprinkle some wood ashes all along the rows. If that don’t do it, I’ll mix up a mess of cornmeal and molasses. That should keep ’em off. Lucky they haven’t gotten to your other plants.” She stood once more, thrusting her hands into her back pockets. “Everything else is coming up fine. You did a good job planting,” she acknowledged.
She didn’t give him much chance to enjoy the sense of victory that filled him.
“If you notice anything else eating the leaves, let me know.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he answered automatically.
Again she narrowed her eyes at him, as if suspicious of his tone. When she didn’t say anything more, Caleb tried to think of something to add. For some reason, he didn’t want her to leave just yet. Up to now, he’d avoided all company.
But he was intrigued. Perhaps it was because she seemed as content to leave him alone as he was to be left alone. Or perhaps it was the fact that she’d defended him that day in the store.
He still wanted to know why.
When she started walking away from the garden patch, he spoke up. “I’m thinking of buying a boat. Know anything of Winslow’s Shipyard?”
She nodded. “Don’t think much of old man Winslow, but young Silas’ll build you a good craft. He’s got a gift.”
“A gift?”
“It’s in his hands.” She looked briefly down at her own dirt-stained ones. “Anything he builds is light, easy to handle, seaworthy. He won’t charge you much for a small vessel. What are you looking at?”
“Nothing too big. Something I can handle myself. I noticed your little craft. She serves you well. Where do you take her?”
He couldn’t tell whether she was pleased or not by the compliment. “Up and down the coast. She’s just a double-ender, but that’s all I need.” She nodded. “Silas built her for me. In his spare time.” She made a sound of disgust. “Winslow wouldn’t let him waste his time on a little peapod for the likes o’ me. Farmers usually build their own. Folks use ’em for fishing and some
